Beyond the flames, the crowd, the jeers,
lie silent, timeless through the years,
twins of silent beauty, blessed
with Catalan crests upon their breasts.
Born from seed and fertile soil,
and christened with palatial style.
Deep in the valley, wild nature grows,
the river sparkles, ebbs and flows.
Its tranquil echoes of peaceful times,
protect these twins dead in their primes,
a graceful shield from world and war,
like blood of lamb upon their door.
In the shadows of a fearsome mount,
these twins are never called to count,
but guard discreetly upon their rolls
raw secrets of twelve thousand souls
who live and breathe betwixt their pines,
and thrive beneath their hallowed signs.
Though battle rages far away
in streets upon an ancient bay,
these twins stand firm in sombre quiet,
and take no part in needless riot,
but instead bring hope from past to present
that end is near for such torment.
Whilst many come here to adore,
one stands alone atop its tor,
a wounded soul with lonely heart,
draws breath and solemnly remarks:
“far from the tumult and storms above,
‘twas with these twins I fell in love.”